


Darling

by choirboyharem



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dark Bruce Wayne, M/M, One Shot, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 18:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/choirboyharem
Summary: A darling of chaos, Jerome called him. A feral child who had been trapped under the thumb of niceties for far too long, forced to act the part of an American sweetheart. This was where he truly belonged, Jerome would say with a beaming smile, pleased and proud and adoring as Bruce’s lips still burned with the toothy, bloody kiss Jerome would give him, wanting to swallow him whole.





	Darling

**Author's Note:**

> rambles of this au i’ve sort of been forming in my head of bruce getting kidnapped by jerome in the last laugh and developing stockholm syndrome and becoming a murderous little slut.

Bruce probably wouldn’t have liked it if it didn’t fill him with a sick, delicious, awful kind of feeling in his stomach, something hot that made him bite his lip over a smile. Something forbidden that you weren’t supposed to like. Not if your head functioned the way everyone expected it to. 

Jerome called him an adrenaline junkie and a glutton for punishment and a little degenerate and every other name he could use without outright antagonizing Bruce. Bruce liked those, too. The special nicknames. There was something validating in them.

Whenever he shoved Jerome down against the floor and crawled over him, his own body humming like an electric shock, perpetually aroused from the misfortune of still experiencing puberty in full force, he liked hearing that he wasn’t supposed to do this and he wasn’t supposed to like that. Maybe it was a weird thing with defiance and stubbornness. Maybe arrogance.

Bruce could admit his arrogance. Brattiness, even. Jerome would sigh dramatically and tell him it was a phase and he’d outgrow it and it was nothing a spanking couldn’t cure before he’d push his fingers in Bruce’s mouth, almost gagging him.

Bruce liked that he was getting someone else in trouble. It was less about the childishness and more about a form of justice. If only Jim Gordon could get his hands on the matricidal terrorist who kept molesting a child, how he’d beat him bloody, black and blue—

“I could turn you in,” Bruce whispered, high-pitched and panting, his fingernails digging into Jerome’s shoulders. “It’d be so easy.”

“You really want that so your surrogate daddy can get a chance to take you back home and send you to bed without dinner?” Jerome pushed Bruce’s thigh up higher, slamming into him. Bruce choked out a moan, too loud and begging, his back arching and hips snapping.

“I could ruin you,” Bruce gasped out.

“Then do it,” Jerome snarled, his nails scratching and drawing blood. Bruce came with a shout, snapping into pieces underneath Jerome’s body, spilling thick and white between them both. It was something he still wasn’t used to.

Bruce was good at making people sick. Or, rather, he was good at making people feel sick because of Jerome, who had kidnapped and brainwashed this teenager, this child, what the hell was wrong with him? Whenever they had someone struggling underneath rope and cord, near tears with a gun in their mouth, Bruce could pull Jerome down and kiss him hard. And he wasn’t supposed to like it. No one would think he was supposed to like it.

Bruce was a victim of molestation. Of abuse. He just didn’t know any better. He was only a child.

Which, well, of course he wasn’t, he thought, grabbing a fistful of Jerome’s hair and biting a cut into his lip. Not anymore. Bruce had pulled himself out of trauma. He’d defeated it and it belonged to him, a toy in his hand.

A darling of chaos, Jerome called him. A feral child who had been trapped under the thumb of niceties for far too long, forced to act the part of an American sweetheart. This was where he truly belonged, Jerome would say with a beaming smile, pleased and proud and adoring as Bruce’s lips still burned with the toothy, bloody kiss Jerome would give him, wanting to swallow him whole.

And Bruce thought that he could believe him. The nights they spent together were unforgivable and terrifying and sickening and messy and exhilarating and like a home Bruce had never known. It was an easy replacement. Instead of being forced to relive the same nightmare every time he closed his eyes, letting himself be seduced by guilt and misery, he had images of nameless, faceless victims coughing and spluttering blood and begging Bruce to spare them. (They always tried to appeal to Bruce. Jerome’s height and age appearance were slightly more off-putting as compared to Bruce when it came to their victims of brutal torture.)

And so Bruce would believe Jerome, gladly taking a knife and implanting it deep inside a victim’s chest, twisting it and listening to screams of agony as he indulged in the mindless terror of it all. This was who he truly was. This was where he belonged. 


End file.
